I took a deep breath before answering. Daniel had visited Ethan several times when he was young, but those visits eventually stopped. He moved away, struggled to rebuild his life, and eventually lost contact with our family. I had never told Ethan the full story because I believed he deserved a peaceful childhood. But now he was eighteen, and I understood that protecting him from every painful truth was no longer possible. I explained that his father had sent birthday cards and occasional letters, even when he couldn’t bring himself to visit.

Ethan stared at the table. “Where are those letters?” he asked. I walked upstairs and opened an old wooden box I had kept in my bedroom closet. Inside were seventeen envelopes, each addressed to Ethan in Daniel’s handwriting. Some contained photographs, others contained birthday wishes. None had ever been opened. Daniel had asked me to give them to Ethan when he was old enough to understand. Ethan carefully picked up the first envelope. His hands trembled as he noticed the date. It had been written on his fourth birthday.